


Every Prayer For Tranquility

by PrivateBi



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Autistic!Damien, Do you ever just have a panic attack for no reason at all? Damien does., Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, also, it doesn't feature super prominently in this fic but it's there if you know what to look for, no beta readers we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrivateBi/pseuds/PrivateBi
Summary: Anxiety doesn't always strike when you expect it to. Damien struggles to deal with it on his own, and ends up not having to.





	Every Prayer For Tranquility

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever write something and realize along the way that you'd been needing to write something like it for a long time? Because that's what this is. It's based in a big way on experiences I've had and emotions I've felt. Regardless of whether or not it's worth reading, it was cathartic as hell to write.

If there was anywhere where Damien should have felt completely safe, it was here, in Rilla’s cozy hut outside the Citadel, in the valley between the sleeping forms of both his partners. It was a familiar scenario, one usually full of comfort, togetherness, and the memory of countless nights passed in peaceful slumber. Damien cursed his traitorous panic for interjecting itself into such a moment without so much as a discernible cause.

Now, every prayer for tranquility that passed through his lips was lost in wheezing, gasping breaths which he fought and failed to silence. He had sat up in bed, hoping the change in position would grant him an advantage as he struggled to breathe, but it hadn’t helped. It had only exposed his bare skin to the air, exacerbating the unnatural chill that seemed to have been enshrouding him from the moment he’d awoken, filled with unease which quickly escalated into panic. He could feel the tiny hairs on his arms raising into gooseflesh under the painfully-tight grip of his white-knuckled hands. The heat from the other two occupants of the bed neither warmed nor comforted him, only made him worry about causing a scene and disturbing his lovers’ peace. The only sound louder than his panicked rasping was the erratic beat of his own heart in his ears, blood racing to rush faster than the thoughts that told him that every stable thing in his life was rapidly crumbling around him.

“Please, don’t try to handle this alone,” Rilla had told him once, when he had confided in her that his panic attacks had increased in frequency since achieving knighthood. At the time, her remark had sent his thoughts spiraling. _Does she think I’m incapable of handling my emotions? Does she see me as weak and hysterical? Am I too neurotic to be the man she deserves?_ The worry must have shown in his face, because she continued, “I’m sure you can handle it on your own; you’ve done so in the past. But you shouldn’t have to.” She had taken one of his hands in both of hers, then, and pressed it between them reassuringly. “If you’re ever hurting, for any reason, I want you to come to me. And I promise I will help you however you need me to, no matter how tired or busy I am. Because you are my partner, and I am yours, and that’s how this works.”

Damien knew, even in this latest installment in a string of low moments, that Rilla had been right. All he had to do was wake her, and she would be as a balm to his raw and fevered mind. She was right beside him, it would be so simple, and saints he needed somebody right now… but he couldn’t find it in himself to disrupt her sleep, nor could he imagine doing the same to Arum, although he had likewise proven himself adept at snapping Damien out of the grip of anxiety. It would be criminal to disturb the two of them now, when they were finally allowing themselves to rest after days spent experimenting with barely any pause for sleep. How selfish and heartless he was, for even considering asking them to waste their time and energy on his meaningless hysteria. He was a sorry excuse for a man and a partner, to think he had manipulated not one but two brilliant, gifted individuals into seeing him as an equal, as someone worthy of their affection and admiration, someone capable of returning every bit of the emotional energy they spent on him. They’d see through his brave facade soon enough, and realize that at his core he was no more than this terrified, pathetic shadow of a man, curled into a shivering ball on the bed between them.

Arum shifted at his side, and Damien tried to quiet his breathing so as not to disturb the lizard further. His efforts were soon proven futile, as in seconds Arum was sitting up beside him, looking into his face with obvious concern. His long tongue darted from between his lips, and Damien knew there was no way that he could hide the smell of sweat and fear that surely clung to him. He was foolish to have thought that the physical effects of this panic attack could have possibly gone undetected by Arum’s superior senses.

“Damien,” said Arum, his voice still rough with sleep, “Speak your heart. What troubles you?” It was the same scripted phrase he always used when Damien’s anxiety became overwhelming; they’d talked about it and agreed on it not long after their relationship had begun. Although the question was comfortable in its reliable repetition, Damien could not make an answer. Words seemed to stick traitorously in his throat; his greatest skill abandoning him, leaving him voiceless and without the tool he relied on to cope with his panic. It was mortifying, to be mute and helpless next to his proud and noble partner. Shame and remorse flooded Damien’s mind, colliding with the overwhelming fear there in the same way air currents combine to form a perfect storm. The only response he could make was to shake his head, tighten his grip on his own arms, and try in vain to blink away the stinging tears that had begun to spill from his eyes.

Tentatively, Arum put one of his right hands on Damiens shoulder, as if half-expecting him to pull away from the touch like it was poisonous. When there was no reaction, he squeezed it with a gentle, reassuring pressure. “It’s okay,” he said, speaking in the same way he spoke to his easily-frightened macracnids. “I don’t require an explanation. If talking isn’t what you need right now, I won’t ask it of you.”

Damien couldn’t make him understand that talking was exactly what he needed just then. He needed to apologize for his appalling behavior, to beg Arum to forgive him and not to let this be the final thing that made him realize how truly unworthy Damien was of him. He desperately wanted to explain himself and, paradoxically, to explain the reason for his current inability to speak. All of this frustration built like a pressure inside him, and he felt it as acutely as any physical pain: deep in his chest as though his heart were struggling to break free from the cage of his ribs.

He was aware of Arum continuing to speak to him. “Breathe, slowly now. Just like Rilla always asks you to.” Damien tried to comply, but he was unable to slow the frantic rising and falling of his chest, which had been going on for what was beginning to seem like an eternity. Hyperventilating for so long was making his sides ache and his vision blur, and it felt for all the world as if he would never be able to stop.

“Somebody say m’name?” mumbled Rilla, half-asleep.

“Yes, Amaryllis,” said Arum as Damien listened, guilt doubling with the realization that he had now ruined the night for not one but both of his partners. “ Now since you’re already awake, how about you help me calm down our fiance -tktktktktktktktktk” In Damien’s mind, the rattling hiss confirmed Arum’s irritation with the situation, and Rilla’s response - an emphatic utterance of the word “saints” - revealed that she, too, was displeased.

Arum continued to address Rilla, talking over Damein’s wheezing. “He was like this when I woke up, and he hasn’t responded to me at all since then - not a single word.”

“That bad, huh,” said Rilla. The way she and Arum were talking about him - commenting on his behavior as if he wasn’t in the room, as if they were merely complaining about him to each other - made Damien feel extremely self conscious. He wanted to get away, to flee, to hide his shame from his partners, but he couldn’t find it in himself to let go of the tension in his body enough to move.

“Damien, breathe,” said Rilla, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “I know everything seems overwhelming right now, but I promise it won’t last forever. You’ve gotten through panic attacks like this before, you can do it again.” Her words reminded Damien of a dozen other times control had been wrenched from his grasp by indescribable terror, only for him to pull himself together, triumphing over the demons of his mind. Even without Rilla or Arum there to help him, he’d always managed to claim victory in the end. Being reminded of this made him feel, for the first time all night, a tiny bit better.

“Would it help to try to match your breathing to mine?” asked Rilla. Damien nodded imperceptibly. He felt her wrap her arms around him, drawing him closer so his ear rested against her chest, where he could hear her heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell with slow, exaggerated motions. After a few minutes, Damien was able to stop hyperventilating long enough to take one deep breath, drawn-out and shuddering. He could taste salt as his tears dripped down his face and into his mouth.

“That’s it, we’ve got you,” said Arum, moving two of his hands in gentle circles over Damien’s back and shoulders. The slight scrape of scales over his skin was soothing.

“We’ve got you,” Rilla echoed. Damien could feel the response vibrate in her chest, the sound of the words as reassuring as their meaning.

The three of them stayed like that until Damien had caught his breath. He remained on edge, wide-eyed and shaking, but the worst of the panic was behind him. The tension in his limbs ebbed away until it ceased to be painful, and after what could have been minutes or hours, he extricated himself from Rilla’s grasp. He sat back against the headboard, gaze fixated on his hands as he wrung them in front of his chest, unable to look either of his partners in the eye.

“Sorry,” he managed to say, and that one word seemed to unlock his eloquence once more, finally allowing him to use it to beg forgiveness the way he'd been wanting to. “I’m so sorry, truly. I’ve behaved inexcusably just now, and am unworthy even to beg your pardon, but all the same I must tell the both of you how utterly ashamed I am to have burdened you with this wretched display of mine. I don’t know how-”

“Hush, Damien,” interrupted Rilla. There’s no need to apologize. I’m not upset. Are you upset, Arum?”

“No, I’m not. Nor do I find you at all burdensome, for what it’s worth.” 

“See? Everything’s fine. You’ve done nothing wrong-”

Damien interjected, unable to hold back his words now that he had the air to support them. “Oh, my Rilla, but I have - I’ve been horrible and childish and hysterical, and I haven’t a single justification for myself-”

“Did you choose this?” asked Rilla, her calm words cutting short what could easily have become a diatribe of self-deprecation. A look of confusion crossed Damien’s face. “Go ahead, answer me: did you choose this? Did you wake up tonight and decide that it would be the perfect time to have a panic attack? Is this what you wanted?”

“No!” His voice broke on the single syllable, so he backed up and started again. “No, of course not. Surely you - my love, my forever flower - must know that I would never intentionally force myself into such a state. I don’t believe I could if I wanted to. Not that I want to! You must not believe that I would choose to hurt myself in such a way, you mustn’t-”

“Then there’s nothing to be sorry for,” said Rilla, in the self-sure voice of one making a point in a philosophical debate. Damien knew she was right, and once again he found himself wanting to apologize. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the memory of all the times Rilla had teased him - affectionately, she had assured him - for making apologies for his apologies. Without this path of conversation to fall back on, he found himself once again at a loss for words, frantically searching his mind for appropriate scripts, and coming up blank. His mouth opened and closed uselessly.

Arum’s tail flicked impatiently - once, twice - before he removed one of his hands from Damien’s back and stretched it out to retrieve something from the cluttered bedside table. A quill, nib covered in dried ink, fell from the table to the floor, where it landed with a rug-muffled thud. Damien peered through his fingers, which he had begun to flutter in front of his eyes, to locate the source of the sound, before a scaly hand thrust a book of poetry into his field of vision.

“Are you going to read this, or shall I?”

Puzzled, Damien looked from the book to Arum, and back again. He managed an inelegant “What?” and before he could begin criticising himself for his regrettable choice of phrase, Arum responded.

“You need a distraction right now, and frankly, I do too. So I ask again: are you going to read this, or shall I?”

_He’s losing patience with you, and rightfully so, you’re behaving like a child_ , thought Damien, his mind starting down a fretful path. Then, near miraculously the direction of his thoughts shifted, drawn to poetry as if by a magnet. _That’s the collection of odes to the saints that I bought the other day. I’ve only read a few pages._

He took the book, sweeping his fingertips back and forth over the coarse fabric of the cover. He opened it to an ode to Saint Damien, which he had marked with a piece of scrap parchment. Beside him, Rilla shifted, sitting up straighter and changing her expression. After a moment’s contemplation, Damien concluded that her posture signified interest; she expected him to read aloud. A few seconds more, and he realized that was exactly what he wanted to do. He needed to shift his thoughts away from this unfortunate episode and focus them on something else. Poetry was a particularly appealing redirection.

“Saint Damien, your tranquility,” he began, words rumbling warmly in his throat. For the first few stanzas, his heart thudded uncomfortably, reminding him of what he had just gone through. He took a deep breath and carried on; it would be sacrilegious to stop when the ode had only just begun. Before long, his fear and discomfort ebbed away, and he found himself wrapped up completely in the rhythm of the words, and the story they told. If the sick feeling of panic was still sitting in his chest, he didn’t feel it. Nor could any anxiety worm its way back into his mind. He was lost in this poem, in this prayer to his saint, in the familiar sound of his own voice echoing in the room. The silence from Rilla and Arum, if he’d been paying attention to it, would have told him that they were just as caught up in the reading as he.

The first gray-white beams of dawning sun began to filter through the curtains, and Damien only noticed because they made the book in his hands easier to see.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: The working title for this fic was Panic! At The Citadel. 
> 
> I'm @ginnie-darling on tumblr PLEASE come talk to me about Second Citadel I have some Emotions


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